


Still

by Charis



Series: Never and Always [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Friendships, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Filling In the Gaps, Gen, Mild Alternate History, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porthos is Common Sense Man, Reunions, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6554227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragments and in-betweens; collecting various smaller ficlets set in my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/274518">Never and Always</a> alternate canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 12 December 1636 : Paris, France

**Author's Note:**

> Title by way of T.S. Eliot's _Four Quartets_ , as this whole series is:  
>  _Except for the point, the still point,_  
>  _There would be no dance, and there is only the dance._  
>  _I can only say,_ there _we have been: but I cannot say where_  
>  _And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time._
> 
> These are mostly exercises in getting my head back into these characters after not writing them for a while, but they flesh out that verse as well. This first one takes place between the final two parts of _Currents of Action_ , and will probably make no real sense if you've not read that. XD

Motier is scarcely fourteen, but he’s the only one she dares trust with this task. He knows the region, he knows how to keep his wits about him, and he’s an adept horseman despite his youth. That he’s little more than a boy means nothing; she’ll use him just as ruthlessly as she’s used others before, because what’s in this letter matters – because this news had to get into the right hands, and get there quickly, before anyone else hears of it. The most important weapon in her arsenal at this moment is speed.

He’s curious; she can see that in his eyes though he says nothing, just waits while she slides the hastily-penned note into a message tube and seals it before extending the small leather case to him. “Put this into Athos’ hands – Athos’ alone,” she instructs, holding his gaze. Only when he nods does she let go. “They were headed for Vielha at last report. How quickly can you get to the border?”

“Three days with the relay stations. It may take several more to find them once I’m acro –” Something must show on her face, because he straightens, swallows, nods crisply. “I’ll manage, Milady.”

He understands the import of what he carries, then, even without explanation or any knowledge of its contents. She would expect no less. “Good.”

She does not bid him depart; he knows her well enough to hear the tacit dismissal in her words. She does not bid him be safe; they both know the dangers, and how to skim that razor’s edge of necessary risk. All he does is tuck the case into his doublet, fastening it closed again before striding briskly out the door, and she watches him go and wonders how it’s come that she pins so much on others willingly, unhesitatingly – wonders how much she’s changed that she trusts him to make this delivery, trusts Athos to know how to respond, trusts whomever it is he sends in his stead (for she knows him well enough, as a man and as Tréville’s protegé, to realise he won’t return while any of the Musketeers remain at the front) to do what must be done here. These long months in Paris have changed her far more than she’d realised possible. But she _does_ trust, and it matters now more than ever before, and so she just uncurls her fingers, rests them on the surface of her desk for a moment and draws in a slow, steadying breath.

She has work to do.


	2. 17 January 1634 : Paris, France

It’s odd, Constance thinks, to be making her way through the back corridors of the Louvre with the woman currently beside her. The last time they’d both been here it had been as adversaries; now, though far from friends, she feels curiously at ease with the other woman – feels she understands Milady enough to begin to trust. And the more she learns, the more she realises this meeting needs to happen, because she can’t forever keep carrying bits of information between the two, and because there are things she doesn’t understand about politics that she thinks both Anne and Milady do, and certainly it’ll be better for them to talk directly, even if it takes creeping up the servants’ stairs to do it.

(Then again, it’s hardly the first time either of them has stolen into the palace; she doubts it’ll be the last. No matter what, there are always reasons, or people, that merit secret conversations, and the novelty hasn’t quite grown stale yet. She’ll take what small enjoyment she can.)

She raps lightly on the door, a familiar pattern by now, and at the murmured affirmative eases it open. The hour is late enough that the queen’s ladies are long since abed, but sure enough Anne’s still awake, reading the correspondences piled before her. A single candelabrum provides illumination while throwing the rest of the room into shadow, and Constance moves forward without hesitation, Milady trailing several paces behind – and she can see the moment that the other woman steps into that pool of light by the expressions that flicker across Anne’s face, too rapidly for her to catch.

She’d thought – oh god, she’d thought that Anne knew by now that Athos’ wife had been Louis’ mistress, but looking at them now Constance realises that the pieces had never come together, and god above, this was a _terrible_ idea –

She watches the two women size each other up, watches the tension grow thicker by the moment, and curls her hands into her skirts and bites back whatever she might have said. Anne is one of her dearest friends, and she’s warming to Milady, and if they can only see past what had been she thinks they might come to understand each other even if they can do nothing else. And so she waits, watches, _hopes_.

It’s Milady who makes the first move, heedless of protocol, closing the last of the distance to draw a long cloth-wrapped bundle from under one arm and offer it to Anne. “After what happened with Rochefort,” she says, without any preamble or introduction, “I thought you might do well being better equipped the next time.”

Anne’s brows lift a little, the barest hint of surprise, but she takes the bundle, untied and unrolls it – and blinks, nonplussed, at the contents for a moment before a slow smile tugs at her mouth. “Well,” she says as her fingers trace the line of the bejewelled bodkin resting amid the folds of fabric, and it’s Anne and not the Queen speaking, and Constance feels the tension in her body ebb, “that’s an interesting foot to start off on again.”


	3. 1 April 1634 : Paris, France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set roughly eighteen months into the war, when the crown summons Athos back to Paris for Prince Philippe's christening.

It’s late when he reaches the city -- later by far than he’d hoped, and later still by the time he finishes reporting in to Tréville. Some part of him had hoped to find Anne there, unlikely though he knew it was, but at this hour he’s not surprised she was absent; he’s aware of how often her work means odd hours. It is one of those small, shockingly ordinary things that seem to come up in their letters, and he wonders yet again at how much easier it is sometimes to put pen to paper than to say the same words aloud.

His thoughts carry him through Paris’ streets, quiet after the midnight bells, and across the small distance to the garrison. He’ll be more at ease in the familiar spartan surroundings than he will in a spare bedroom at the palace, and with how little sleep he’s likely to get every bit helps (and as it is, he wants to check in with the men he’d left there, though that will keep until the morn). Roger seems to agree, whickers contentedly as Athos gets him settled into a stall (waving off the bleary-eyed stable boy who struggles awake to offer help), and doesn’t so much as look up from his meal when the latch to his stall clicks shut behind his rider. Athos can understand that single-mindedness; right now, his only thoughts are of his own rest.

The stairs are as familiar as if he were still climbing them daily, though there are new nicks on the bannister that suggest youngsters -- Guyot’s apprentices, perhaps, in the absence of recruits -- are duelling on them even now. But it’s still comfortable, a place he knows to the marrow, and he opens the door as he has a thousand times before expecting the same quiet darkness that had lain across the rest of the garrison.

He’s half right.

It’s quiet -- until the sound of steel rasping against leather punctuates the stillness. But there’s a candle burning in a puddle of wax on the desk, and he barely has time to register the figure behind the table before instinct (honed even sharper after months on the front, no matter that they've seen more waiting than combat) has him dropping his saddlebags as he dives to one side, reaching for (and stopping, before it’s more than an abortive measure) his sword.

Green eyes, wide with shock, snap from the knife quivering in the jamb to his face as Anne sets down the empty sheath she’s still holding. “That was,” she says, and though her voice is steady he can see how her hand trembles just a little, “not at all how I meant to greet you.”

He relaxes a little at that, reaching back to close the half-open door. “I hope my words were not so unforgivable.”

“If they had been, you’d know it.” She sets a second dagger, still sheathed, atop the stack of papers before her. “You were very nearly late.”

“There was some trouble getting away.” And it had been only a minor skirmish during a scouting foray, but he’d insisted on seeing his men settled before leaving. He has a duty to them; Tréville and the queen would have understood if he’d been tardy, even if the king likely would have not. (He is still unsure what the woman before him might have thought.)

He eyes narrow as she studies him, as if looking for some injury the scuffed travel leathers hide. It gives him a chance to look at her in turn, take in the changes these months have wrought. She looks comfortable here, as if she belongs, dark hair pulled into a messy plait and ink-stains on her fingers and --

“Is that my shirt?”

Incredibly, colour stains the pale shadow of her throat, but she only lifts her chin to squarely meet his gaze once more. “And if it is?”

”If it is, _wife_ ,” and the word is almost fond, the strange endearment it’s become in the letters that have passed between Paris and the border, “then I think perhaps I should ask for it to be returned.”

That wins a smirk from her, “Merely a part of what is mine by rights; I have no intention of returning it freely.”

There's a challenge and an invitation there, but as much as he wants to answer them both he's been on the road since dawn, and he's weary to the core and all too aware how quickly morning will arrive. “Anne --”

The smile fades, something unreadable gentling her eyes even if her words are brisk. “Go to sleep, husband. There will be time enough before you leave to discuss such matters of ownership -- and the apology you promised me.”

The relief he feels is leavened with regret; their time is short and he _wants_ , but the adrenaline is fading and taking the last of his energy with it, and no matter what he might wish he knows he's on his last legs. “Tomorrow,” he promises, curling the fingers that still itch to touch her into his palms (if he _does_ touch, he doesn't know if he'd be able to stop, and though he might wish otherwise now they would both regret it later if he did). He takes some small consolation in the flash of regret that crosses her face when he tips his head in grateful acknowledgement before heading past her and into the bedroom.

(Her scent lingers on the pillow, winds around him as slumber drags him under, pervades his dreams.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel slightly horrible for ending as I did. Oops? XD


	4. 20 December 1636 : Paris, France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stemming from Milady and Porthos' exchange in [To New Fires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5690425), mostly because the world needs more of these two. I meant to elaborate on some of the shenanigans in question but failed and it ended up being more thinky Porthos than anything else.
> 
> (Seriously, though, I need about a billion Porthos and Milady friendship fics. Why is this not a thing?)

_“Give me a hand?”  
“As long as you’re willing to pay in tales of Athos’ wartime idiocy.”_

In spite of her demand, the walk back to the garrison is a quiet one; Milady’s expression is remote, lost in thought, and Porthos sees no reason to disrupt the silence. They’ve come back into the calm before the storm, and whether it’s tonight or tomorrow or a week from now there will be enough time to catch up. He’s stood in storms enough times to know this one won’t break just yet. (It’s part of why he’d pushed d’Artagnan to go with Constance, beyond their obvious need for time alone together. Their pup may have grown up at war but he’s still very young, and that restless anticipation he’s carried since they left the Musketeer camp needs an outlet. And they’ll both be happier tomorrow for having had that chance.)

“Is there anything of Tréville’s wine supply left?” he asks when they’ve finished seeing to the horses, though, and she turns, still thoughtful but undeniably present as her gaze settles on him.

“There’s wine.” A slight frown, “I’d have thought you’d want your bed more than a drink.”

“Bed’ll keep.” And he’s long since grown used to scant hours. If he went to sleep now, he’d be awake far too early. Just one more thing he’ll have to adjust to now, along with a real bed and the sounds of the city and a thousand other small inconsequentialities.

The frown deepens before she shrugs, “On your own head, then. Come on up.”

It doesn’t surprise him to find she’s been using the captain’s quarters; they’re Athos’ now, after all, and with the garrison nearly empty it’s unlikely anyone would’ve complained. The men left behind when the regiment had ridden out don’t know her as anyone but Athos’ wife, know little to nothing of the fraught history between them and have no reason to look at her askance beyond her sex -- and with Paris’ population depleted by the war, she’s not even the only woman here now. A great deal has changed in their absence.

He follows her up the stairs, closes the door, surveys the office while she rummages in a chest near the back. It’s familiar, the same battered furniture that was here under Tréville’s time as captain (if perhaps a little more scarred and mended), but there are several inkwells lined up on the tabletop that hadn’t been there before, a tarnished candelabra in a puddle of wax that’s crept dangerously near a stack of papers, a shawl draped over the back of the chair that looks like Constance’s handiwork -- a host of little things that add up to make this space more Milady’s now than either of the two men who’ve inhabited it before. (It makes him wonder what it’ll look like after Athos returns, where they will all fit into upon coming back to this city, how they’ll manage it.)

Glass clinks against metal as she returns, passes him one tankard after setting the bottle down. She folds into a chair with the ease of comfortable familiarity and arcs her brows. “Well?” There are a wealth of questions in that single word.

“It’s different,” is all he says, after taking a drink and a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Hardly surprising.”

Despite himself, he chuckles. “Yeah -- but I mind it less than I thought I would. Even if it’s different, it’s still home.” And it surprises him, now that he considers it. War is supposed to change people; he’s not sure if this revelation means he hasn’t changed or if Paris has changed to match him, or if the city is just so familiar that it will always _be_ home no matter how changed he becomes. But home is people as well as places, and Aramis and Athos are still on the border, back in Carcassonne by now if nothing’s gone awry, and until they’re here he suspects it won’t feel quite right, just as something had been missing at the front even with his brothers beside him. “And it’s good to be back, even if I wish it weren’t because of all this.”

“It’s inconvenient,” she agrees, as if it were nothing more than a shipment gone astray and not the death of their king and the inevitable scrabbling for power that is bound to ensue, but she falls quiet after and Porthos just nurses his drink, letting his body relax by fractions as he acclimates once more to these strange-yet-not surroundings, to noises outside that are half remembered and half new, because it’s too quiet here, nothing like the bustle that fifty-odd guardsmen and their associates make even in the small hours of the night, and he doesn’t know when it’ll be like that again. He doesn’t know if it’ll _ever_ be like that again, or if the spaces left by their dead will still be there years from now. Not forever -- he’s no fool, knows men will come and go in the Musketeers, doesn’t even know where another decade will find any of them -- but the thought is still there, and he lets it linger in the silence. When their mugs are empty, he’s the one who reaches for the bottle to pour a second round.

“You don’t actually have to tell me anything,” Milady says finally, turning the mug around and around in her hands. Her face is inscrutable in the candlelight, carefully composed -- reminds him of the court faces he’s seen women don while he’d stood guard duty at the Louvre a lifetime ago (makes him think suddenly of Athos staring down La Porte across a map-strewn table, wearing an expression Porthos had never seen on him before) -- and it occurs to him that he’s not sure if her words at the palace stables had been wholly about giving Constance and d’Artagnan their space.

“D’you want me to?” he counters, though, because he’s realised he _doesn’t_ know what she wants -- doesn’t know her well enough for that, no matter what he might have been able to glean with the years -- and they’ll have to start somewhere, and though he can see the streets in her he is well acquainted with how raw and conflicted those memories can be, and Athos is a far safer subject to begin with, even after everything.

“I'm not entirely sure I believe you’re one to gossip -- especially at your brothers’ expense.” And it’s no answer but there's something in her eyes that Porthos knows well, something he’s seen in his little patched-together family, and in himself, and that fleeting hunger is answer enough.

“It's for his own good.” He drains his mug, pushes it across the tabletop. “Pour me another and I'll tell you about the time we had to sneak into Besalú in disguise -- and why you should _never_ let that husband of yours go undercover ever again.”


End file.
